


Shattered

by trustingHim17



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Angst, Gen, Heavy Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-16
Updated: 2020-09-16
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:53:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26488984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trustingHim17/pseuds/trustingHim17
Summary: Something shattered inside him, and he lunged to kneel beside his friend, desperately hoping he was not too late.Massive angst-fest. You have been warned. Builds off an event in Divide and Conquer
Comments: 1
Kudos: 14





	Shattered

He breathed a sigh of relief as the dose took effect, and time melted away. His body finally kept pace with his thoughts, and everything somehow seemed calmer. No longer was his mind running away from him on this speculation or that problem—or lack of it. No longer did he feel pulled in three different directions. No longer did the cloud of a Black Mood loom over his head. It was exhilarating.

Ideas, pictures, memories raced through his mind almost faster than he could process them. Most he let fly by—they were just the semi-hallucinations common with the drug—but some he grabbed, tucking them away to remember later. Though Watson had never believed that such a thing could be true, some of his best solutions had been a random thought in the midst of a cocaine high. He had grown skilled at knowing which idea might be of use later and which ideas were better discarded, and he filtered accordingly.

Shouting tried to intrude on his awareness, but he barely noticed it, more focused on the wonderfully stimulating high shooting through his veins. That was an idea worth keeping. That was a strange vision. That was a cherished memory.

Watson had never liked Holmes’ cocaine use, claiming he was doing himself harm, but he had disregarded his friend’s words as the worries of a veteran who had seen too many people overdose. There was no chance of him dying from his indulgence; his doses were never high enough to worry about, and in small amounts, the cocaine was infinitely useful. It was not harming him. It brought him alive, chasing away the Black Mood that had been following him for weeks, and he wanted it to continue.

What he wanted and what would happen were two different things, however, and he sighed as the high faded yet again. He would need another dose.

But not yet. He would wait at least a few minutes to let that one fade from his system completely, and he stretched and blinked the sitting room into focus, curious to see what Watson was doing while he waited. The last time he had checked, Watson had been seated at his desk, writing in one of his journals, but his friend had probably finished that and picked out a book, judging by the lack of pen-scratching. Watson refused to leave the sitting room while Holmes indulged—and refused to let _Holmes_ leave the sitting room while Holmes indulged.

He stood, continuing his stretch and looking around. The fire was low, he noticed, and he leaned forward instead of immediately turning to find his friend, intending to build the fire back up. The cold always irritated Watson’s old injuries.

The damage caught his eye first. There was a bullet hole that he had not noticed before, and he looked closer. When had they gained a bullet hole in the mantle? He certainly had never shot the mantle.

The splinters were sharp and still brightly contrasting the wood’s stain, and terror shot through him.

Why was there a _fresh_ bullet hole in the mantle?

The shouting he had faintly registered came to mind, and he spun to face the room.

James Carter, brother of the kidnapper they had caught last week, lay dead in the middle of the floor, his neck very obviously broken, and Holmes started to walk closer, fighting to understand what had happened. Bruising had begun to form on Carter’s left eye before he died, and Holmes’ terror grew as he realized the bruising looked horribly familiar.

Before he could begin frantically scanning the sitting room, he caught movement in the corner of his vision, and he spun, expecting to find Watson either proud he had taken Carter down without help or mourning the loss of life.

Watson lay on the floor near the doorway to the landing, staring at him and fighting to speak despite the blood spilling rapidly from a gunshot wound in his chest.

No.

_No!_

He lurched forward, falling to his knees beside Watson’s nearly limp form as he fought to deny what he was seeing.

It was too simple to deduce. Carter had broken in, and with Holmes caught in his high, Watson had been forced to take him alone, to choose between himself and Holmes. The bullet in the mantle clearly displayed his choice. He had saved Holmes at the cost of his own life.

He reached for the wound, intending to put pressure on it in some illogical attempt to prevent the inevitable, but a hand grasped his instead, drawing his attention away from the hole in his friend’s chest and the rapidly growing pool of blood.

Watson stared at him, no blame in his gaze as he tightly gripped Holmes’ hand, and Holmes knew what Watson was saying. The knowledge granted him words.

“No! Stay with me!”

Watson only squeezed harder, briefly, and tried to smile. Then the hand grasping his slowly relaxed, and Watson’s eyes lost focus, staring blankly through him. The pool of blood stopped growing.

No. No, this was all _wrong!_

Watson _couldn’t_ be dead. Watson was alive. He _had_ to be alive. He would wake in a moment, and they would have just enough time to reach another doctor, just like so many other times before. Watson had to wake up.

He tried everything, ignoring the way Watson’s blank stare bore through him, no well-deserved blame in that gaze even now. Watson should _not_ stare at him like that. He had to get rid of that blank stare. Watson had to wake up, and that blank stare had to go.

But there was nothing he could do. There was no movement, no breathing, no heartbeat. Heat faded rapidly, and the blood began congealing on the floor, on his hands, on Watson’s chest.

Watson was gone.

Something inside him broke, falling to pieces as the knowledge washed over him. Watson was _gone_ , and it was all _wrong_. Watson _couldn’t_ be gone. The something inside him broke further, shattering in an explosion of pain and sending cracks snaking through the rest of him as if he were made of dried clay instead of flesh and blood. A hollowness germinated somewhere inside him, slowly taking over and threatening to overwhelm him.

He needed to let it out. It would engulf him if he held it captive, and he took a deep breath, opening his mouth to scream, to release the horrible _emptiness_ building in his chest…

And jerked awake with a gasp.

He sat bolt upright in bed, breathing heavily and wrinkling the sheets in his shaking hands’ white-knuckle grip.

No. It was a dream, he told himself, gasping for air as his gaze darted around the room. Just a dream.

Wasn’t it? The dream ran through his mind again, frighteningly detailed and powerful and contrasting with another memory.

Which was real?

The covers landed in a pile on the floor, and he barely refrained from sprinting across his room, dreading what he would find on the other side of the wall. Was Watson on the settee? Or was he—?

He could not bring himself to finish the thought.

The bedroom door stood open, and he rushed through, needing to view the sitting room. He _had_ to find Watson. The other memory had Watson in the sitting room, but if that was empty, he would check the other bedroom.

But the sitting room was _not_ empty, and he sagged against the doorframe, relief nearly making his knees buckle. Watson slept on the settee, unaware of Holmes’ presence despite the grimace on the doctor’s face. The grimace grew as Watson turned in his sleep, reacting to the pain of his injuries, and Holmes stared, confirming that his friend was alive, reassuring himself that his vice had _not_ cost him everything. Watson was still breathing; his injuries would heal. He was alive, not dead, not murdered because Holmes had been high when someone broke in.

The horrible nightmare had been just that—a nightmare.

He remained in the doorway for several long minutes, just watching, as he had so many other times over the years, but soon Watson grew more restless, tossing and turning on the settee as if caught in a fight, and Holmes pushed himself off the doorframe, recognizing what was happening.

“No,” came Watson’s voice, mumbled but understandable as Holmes moved toward the settee, intending to wake his friend from his own nightmare. “No. No, that’s not what happened. _NO!”_

Watson jerked awake, taking barely a moment to look around the sitting room before he lunged off the settee to run towards the other door.

Or, rather, he tried to run towards the door. He fell almost immediately, his injuries interfering with his attempt to stand. Quickly pushing himself off the floor, Watson grabbed his cane, frantically struggling to pull himself to his feet. When that failed, he tried to use the cane to pull himself forward in a half-crawl, desperately fighting to leave the sitting room. Holmes rushed forward, seeking to help before Watson injured himself further.

“Easy,” Holmes said quickly when Watson continued trying and failing to pull himself towards the door, wanting to halt Watson’s panicked movement until he could reach the settee. “You are alright. It was a dream.”

Watson’s gaze shot up from his losing battle to reach the door, all-consuming terrified panic in his eyes until he focused on where Holmes rushed towards him. He stopped struggling, scanning Holmes from head to toe, and Holmes realized Watson was looking for injury.

“It was a dream,” Holmes repeated, setting the cane aside and draping his friend’s arm over his shoulder to lift the doctor back onto the settee. “It was a dream. I am fine. You are fine. Mrs. Hudson is fine. Whatever you saw, it was a dream.”

Watson relaxed as Holmes settled him on the settee, and Holmes carefully checked his friend over to make sure the frantic attempt to rise had not rendered a new injury. Watson remained silent, still breathing somewhat heavily from exertion and his nightmare, but otherwise merely staring when he would normally have protested the quick medical evaluation, and Holmes frowned.

“Watson?”

His friend’s gaze lifted to meet his own, but Watson made no reply.

“What is it, Watson? Did you need something from the other room?”

Watson shook his head in a clear negative even as his intense stare never wavered.

“Did you injure something trying to stand?”

He shook his head again, gingerly leaning back into the cushions with his gaze never leaving Holmes.

Holmes reached over, gently grabbing Watson’s wrist to check his pulse. It was normal, if perhaps a bit fast, and Watson allowed the grip for a couple of seconds longer before he twisted his hand, catching Holmes’ wrist. He sighed, and his eyes drifted closed. He was asleep within seconds, one hand still monitoring Holmes’ heartbeat.

Holmes swallowed, suddenly realizing that Watson’s dream had mirrored his own, that Watson had woken thinking that _Holmes_ was dead and had lunged from the settee to deny the dream. Then, when his injuries had prevented him from standing, he had instead tried to drag himself to the bedroom. He would have succeeded eventually, too, Holmes knew, probably aggravating his injuries in the process.

Hours ago, Watson had insisted Holmes seek his own bed for the night, that he would be fine alone in the sitting room, that Holmes was only a call away should something happen. He should not have listened, and he pulled his armchair closer now, settling carefully to avoid breaking Watson’s grip on his wrist. Watson’s injuries were his fault, he knew, but there was little he could do now aside from guard against more nightmares.

After all, the vials were already in pieces, shattered in the fireplace after nearly losing his dearest friend for real just a few hours before.


End file.
